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“Sylvana was dancing for you,” Della said softly. She had to know what he was thinking. “Aren’t you tempted even a little bit?”

“Hell, no. Sylvana can pick your pocket so skillfully you won’t even know it. And you wouldn’t believe how many valuables she can hide in the folds of her skirt. She wouldn’t be a good choice for a lawman, now would she?” He smiled. “And you’re wrong about who she danced for. Any man fool enough to go off with Sylvana is likely to get Raul’s knife in his back. That’s what the dance was about. Making Raul jealous.”

And me,
Della thought, startled by the strong possessiveness she felt for him. She hadn’t realized it.

They had moved close to see each other in the dim glow of the fire’s embers, close enough that Della smelled the soap he favored, and woodsmoke and the scent of gypsy wine. She swayed lightly on her feet. “I still hear the music.” Wild and sweet and seductive. “It curls through the blood . . .”

He ran his fingertips down her cheek and a shudder of pleasure raced through her body. She could have stepped away—she should have. But she gazed up at him, and her breath quickened.

Cameron’s eyes held hers, then his arms went around her, pulling her into his body. It wasn’t too late to step away, to pretend there had been a misunderstanding, no harm done. But the blood tingled in Della’s veins and she pressed against him, feeling his arousal, hearing her reaction in a soft gasp that lifted her breasts.

Also by Maggie Osborne

I DO, I DO, I DO
SILVER LINING
THE BRIDE OF WILLOW CREEK

Books published by The Ballantine Publishing Group are available at quantity discounts on bulk purchases for mremium, educational, fund-raising, and special sales use. For details, please call 1–800–73303000.

To Zane and Stephanie,
with all my love

Chapter 1

Della didn’t recognize the stranger riding through the twilight toward her house, but she understood who he was by a sharp, intuitive tingling across her scalp. She had been expecting this man, or someone like him, for ten years. Finally he’d come. Standing slowly, she stepped away from her porch chair, then smoothed down her apron and waited as she’d been waiting for so long.

The man rode like a soldier, tall and straight in the saddle, alert to his surroundings, tension bunched along his shoulders and tightening the slope of his sun-darkened jaw. The war hadn’t ended for men like this one.

Long before he reached the porch, Della felt his swift assessment of her, her small house, and the deteriorating outbuildings. She would have bet the earth that hard won experience told him what a soldier would need to know. How many cows and chickens she owned, the number of rooms in her house, where a person could hide on her property. By now he’d be reasonably confident that she was alone and posed no danger. As if to confirm her conclusions, he reined in front of the porch steps and flexed his arms, relaxing the tight squared line of his shoulders.

“Mrs. Ward?”

A low voice with no particular accent. Neutral. Not warm or cold. He was a stranger with a rifle and pommel holsters riding up to a woman alone, yet he made no effort to put her at ease by smiling or immediately announcing his name and business.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, knowing in her bones why he was there, watching as he swung to the ground and tipped his hat. He was as tall as she’d guessed, dark haired, and wearing a gun belt beneath his duster. Despite the weapons on his horse and at his waist, he didn’t frighten her. She doubted anything could frighten her anymore.

“I’ve come about your husband.”

“Yes.”

Immediately after the war, she would have burst into tears and run down the steps, begging for whatever information he could give. But now she’d lived with guilt and regret and hopelessness for so long that she wasn’t sure if she still wanted to know what this man had come to tell her. She did, and she didn’t.

“Who are you?”

“The name’s Cameron,” he said, halting at the foot of the porch steps.

Della swallowed back an odd, shivery thrill that lay somewhere between alarm and attraction. The attraction was easy to explain. Cameron was a handsome, commanding figure of a man. She also understood the frisson of alarm curling like smoke in her stomach. This man didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone, she saw that in his cool eyes. Such men were dangerous, possessed of a capability for violence and ruthlessness that showed in the way they moved and carried themselves. Della guessed that other men would take care what they said to Mr. Cameron, and how they said it. Certain women would be irresistibly challenged by the hard indifference flattening his gaze.

Suddenly conscious of her frizzy unkempt hair and her faded dress and soiled apron, Della nodded once, then gestured toward the door. “I have coffee in the house.”

“Thank you.”

Inside, she passed him on the way to the stove. He’d stopped to look around. There wasn’t much to see; one fair-sized room that served as kitchen, parlor, laundry room, sewing room, whatever was needed. Her bedroom opened off the back, and above was a loft area that she used for storage. Once he had the layout in mind, he removed his hat and duster and placed them on the floor next to his chair. But he didn’t ask if she’d rather he removed his gun belt as most men would have.

“I made a raisin pie. Fresh baked this morning,” she offered, reaching for cups on the shelf above the stove.

“No, thank you.”

“I guess you had supper in town.”

Disappointment twitched the corner of her mouth. Company didn’t come her way very often, and she didn’t want him to leave immediately. Also, she wanted to delay his news by plying him with food and small talk. That was dumb. Mr. Cameron impressed her as a man who engaged in small talk about as often as she did. She placed a coffee cup before him and took the facing chair, surprised to discover him studying her as if he knew her, like he was looking for changes since he’d seen her last.

“Have we met?” Or was he just a rude bastard? She remembered Clarence’s friends as possessing refined manners. But the war changed people. Look at her. She didn’t put much stock in manners anymore, either.

“I came through here years ago. You were working at the Silver Garter.”

She almost dropped her coffee cup. “Wait.” Yes, there was something familiar about him. But why on earth would she remember this man out of the hundreds who had passed through the Garter? But something about him . . . And then she remembered. “It was cold that night. You stood beside the stove. You said, ‘I didn’t expect to find someone like you working in a saloon.’ ”

“And you said, ‘You don’t know me, so don’t judge me.’ ”

How odd that both of them remembered so brief an exchange. Heat flooded Della’s cheeks and she turned her face toward the window above the sink. She hated to be reminded of that year, hated that she was face-to-face with someone who had seen her wearing a skimpy costume and a feather in her hair.

Holding his long-ago image in her mind, she slid a look across the table. He’d filled out, and deeper lines etched his forehead and the corners of his eyes. He was more of a presence now, harder, edgier. In place of the fire and fury she’d seen in him all those years ago, she now saw a weariness that extended beyond a need for rest. The shivery mix of attraction and warning swirled in her throat, then settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Wait a minute.” Comprehension came suddenly, followed by anger. She gripped the edge of the table. “You came here years ago looking for me, didn’t you?” Cameron didn’t answer and his expression didn’t change. “So why didn’t you tell me about Clarence back then?”

“I should have.” He blew on his coffee before he tasted it.

Clarence would have given a dozen reasons, would have talked for twenty minutes to reach the same statement. And it wasn’t acceptable. Pushing to her feet, she went to the window and stared outside, waiting for the storm in her chest to subside.

This was the wettest July that North Texas had enjoyed in years. Consequently, the prairie and low hills were green and thick with grass. On a hot evening like this, Della might have braved the mosquitos and walked down to the cottonwoods and dangled bare feet in the creek. Or maybe she would have donned the shapeless man’s hat she wore and weeded her kitchen garden until it got too dark to see. Maybe she would have considered the heavy clouds blotting the sunset and stayed inside.

“Yes, you should have,” she said finally. Anger was a waste of energy. He was here now and that’s what mattered. “I always knew there had to be more than the letter Clarence’s father received,” she said in a quieter tone. “Something more than an official notification. There had to be a message for me.”

The shadow of the barn stretched toward the house, reaching for the road. Not once had she imagined that news about Clarence would come in the evening. She had always pictured a messenger arriving in the morning. And she’d pictured him wearing a dress uniform, a foolish notion considering how long ago the war had ended.

Turning from the window, she returned to the table. “I’m sorry.” Della wasn’t sure if she’d snapped at him, but she’d wanted to. “I just wish you’d told me about Clarence when you were here before.” He kept his gaze fixed on the front door. If his jaw hadn’t tightened, she could have believed that he wasn’t listening. The subject was closed. Drawing a breath, she pushed aside her irritation and stepped into a conversation she had imagined a hundred times. “Did you know my husband well, Mr. Cameron?”

“I was with him when he died.”

“And Clarence gave you a message for me?”

Reaching into his jacket, he withdrew a packet carefully wrapped in oilcloth. It occurred to her that he had carried whatever was inside for almost ten years. She didn’t know what to make of that. In a way it was touching, endearing even. But it was also puzzling, frustrating, and she felt a fresh burst of anger. He’d had no right to withhold this information. Swinging between resentment and dread, she watched him open the oilcloth and slide the thin packet across the table.